Unleashed

Remember me? It’s Russ, your dog. It’s been awhile.

You made a New Year’s resolution to start running. Sharon was proud of you. Tim, the neighbor whose ladder you broke, was proud of you. And I, yes I, was proud of you.

Until the resolution extended beyond you.

I listened intently as you told Sharon everything. During January, you started off slow. A mile every couple of days. You were getting back into it! You hadn’t run since the George H. W. Bush presidency, so you had form and breath and whatever else on the mind. Not me. Not yet.

February came and you decided the shoes, also from the one-term Bush era, were not cutting it. You purchased some very nice, very new shoes. I’m a dog so I have no sense of legal tender or its value. But I know those shoes were too costly. You said that the splurge would “hold you accountable.”

March. March was interesting. Suddenly, you were home all the time. I was excited. But you seemed… sad. And the shoes, despite their price tag, were shoved to the back of the closet. You opted for a constant stream of Netflix originals, accompanied by some low-carb “ice cream” you heard about on that podcast you hate-listen to.

You were once again running-curious in April. You put on the shoes and walked, interspersing these promenades (impressive lexicon for a dog) with short sprints. Run from this mailbox to that lamp post. Run from this accidentally dropped, purposely abandoned Quarter Pounder to the gas station where your last girlfriend, EX-girlfriend, broke up with you. I could do another sentence but I’m a dog and I don’t understand the rule of threes.

In May, you were ready to run consistently. The weather was tolerable. At last! Sharon asked if you’d put on a mask while you ran. You agreed, avoiding a fight. Thank goodness; you two were fighting more, a lot more.

Once the calendar said “June,” you decided you couldn’t bear to go on one more run by yourself. Sharon was tired of talking to you. I guess that happens when you are engaged for seven years. You needed to vent to someone while getting those miles in. But everyone was inside their homes. Can we talk about why everyone was home? And still is? I genuinely do not know. Is this a cultural blind spot for me?

You grabbed the leash. You looked at me, your running shoes on. They were starting to show signs of what humans call “wear and tear,” and so was I. But you took me with you. At first, I didn’t mind running. It was a once a week occurrence. Until July.

The sweltering heat of July made me want to lie and pant and maybe roll around in some grass. But you, ya little spring chicken, continued to leash me up and drag me to my own personal GPS-tracked hell. You didn’t even ask. And when I’d sit down, you’d yank me back up. Aren’t there laws against this? I considered playing dead but decided I didn’t have the acting chops to pull it off.

I tolerated running during August. Only because I noticed you started feeding me more.

The charm of extra kibble quickly wore off. September brought with it the seeds of my escape. My dog knees were aching. Hitting mile three for the seventh time that month solidified that the only way I could convince you to leave me alone was if I made a run for it. No pun intended. As you stretched out, I planned my next moves. I’d wait until we were on a run. I knew it had to be during a run. It was the only way to get my point across.

I noticed you always had to stop and retie your shoe about 36 minutes in. You should really work on tying your shoes better. Honestly.

I also noticed you usually put the handle of my leash around whatever fence post was near our stopping point. You always underestimated my intelligence. Sharon said you did the same to her. Yes, I heard the fights.

I figured if I jumped up and forward, the leash would release from the fence. By the time you’d finish tying your shoes, I’d be long gone.

And I was.

A friend of mine and her human roommate let me stay with them during October and November. They’re a Pilates family, thank goodness. They grocery shop exclusively at Whole Foods and wear running shoes only because athleisure is “in.”

It’s December now. If you’re wondering where Sharon is, she’s safe. She’s happy. We spend our days walking. Or rubbing bellies. Or rewatching Grey’s Anatomy. But never, ever, ever do we run. Speaking of which, are you still running? If so, what from?